The Hidden Read Online Free PDF

could always learn to draw,” he replied.
    “I could? Know anyone who would teach me?”
    “As a matter of fact, I do.” He picked up his drawing pad and a charcoal, then sat down on the bed. “Come here.”
    Quickly abandoning the desk, I went to go sit beside him. Caspian flipped to a new page and pointed to it. “Draw a tree,” he instructed.
    “I can’t. It’s not going to be any good. I can barely hold a pencil, let alone draw anything.”
    “So? Just try.”
    I sighed, then grasped the charcoal carefully. It left blackstreaks on my fingers. Conjuring up all of the things my elementary school art teacher had once said about basic shapes and “becoming one with the object,” I tried to sketch the barest outline of a tree.
    It looked like a squiggle.
    My hand shook as I tried to smooth it out, tried to press the charcoal down harder and make the branches take shape, the trunk appear, the limbs extend outward.
    It still looked like a squiggle. Only … worse.
    “Yeah, I got nothing.”
    Caspian looked down at it. “That’s not true.”
    “I have some black smears. Hardly anything to get excited about.” I turned the page sideways and studied it, putting the charcoal down. “Hey, if you look at it this way, it kind of looks like a giant monster hand or something.”
    He laughed. “Let’s see what we can do with this.” Picking up the charcoal again, he set it to the page and started making quick, short strokes. Dark magic seemed to flow from his hands and settle right onto the paper. Long, smooth lines were next, and I could see something taking shape.
    “Is that a forest?”
    He nodded and kept working, transforming my pathetic, spindly attempts at a tree into a dark, twisted stump. The backgroundcame together, and trees started springing up, gathering around the edges in a wild dance of abandon. Some of the trees had spiky, forked branches, a stern warning to pay attention to what they had to say—while others pointed whimsically this way and that, their arched spines and flowing limbs swaying in time to some unheard beat.
    “That’s amazing,” I breathed. “You’re making it all so real. I can see the story there.”
    He kept working, smoothing and shading, until the edges were perfect. The lines sharp where they needed to be sharp, and soft where they needed to be soft. I didn’t speak, barely breathed, not wanting to interrupt him.
    Finally he finished.
    When he looked up at me, his eyes were bright and happy. He nudged back the sweep of hair that had fallen into one eye, leaving a charcoal smear on his forehead. Overwhelming gratitude filled me to have this chance, this perfect moment, to witness his happiness.
    His passion.
    “What should we call it?” he asked.
    Without hesitation the words flew out of me. “Dance of the Forest.”
    “Perfect.” He scrawled the name on the bottom of the paper, and then ripped the page out of the art pad, placing it on thecovers beside me. “For you. See what a good team we make?”
    I snorted. “Yeah, right. Without my terrible tree you
totally
couldn’t have made that brilliant drawing.”
    “I wouldn’t have had anything to start with,” he corrected. “So, I wouldn’t have ended up with that.” He began another piece as he spoke, this one just a simple river. It was finished quickly, and he flipped the page again. Next a garden came to life, and he filled it with flowers.
    I could have watched him draw all morning, but eventually he broke the stillness. “You know, you’re not completely out of perfume supplies, if you want to make something.”
    “Yes, I am. Vincent broke everything.”
    “What about your supply briefcase?”
    My briefcase?
I got up and went to check under my desk. “It’s still here! You’re right! I can make something with the supplies I have in here.”
    I propped it up on the desk and opened the latches. Delight filled me as I ran my uninjured hand over the rows and rows of shiny amber glass bottles. I grabbed